


Putting Salve on a Tumor

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Whumptober 2020 [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Dandelion’s been keeping a secret.Whumptober Day 19: Broken Hearts
Series: Whumptober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958032
Comments: 32
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the show, but it’s more book/game based.

Something’s off.

Geralt stopped at the door to the Chameleon - Dandelion’s beloved cabaret - and frowned. Triss Merigold was sitting at the table with Zoltan and Dandelion. That in and of itself wouldn’t be too alarming, but they all went quiet when he entered and turned to look at him.

The Cabaret was closed for the day, according to the sign on the door, so it was free of customers. Geralt walked inside, dropped his swords by the door, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Geralt!” cried the poet, his eyes lighting up. “What a pleasant surprise!” He didn’t stand to greet him, which wouldn’t have bothered Geralt, except for the fact that Dandelion always stood to embrace him. Instead, the Witcher leaned over, giving his friend a rather awkward hug with one arm.

“How are you?” asked Triss, her smile slightly forced.

“Fine,” grunted the Witcher, dropping into a chair beside Dandelion.

“How’s the path, laddie?” Zoltan passed him a beer.

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened!” said Dandelion quickly - too quickly - a broad grin on his face. “We’re all fine and well- nothing to trouble yourself over-”

“Dandelion,” Triss said softly.

The troubadour sighed. “We agreed-”

“We’ve agreed on nothing!” snapped Zoltan, shaking his head. “Only that something’s got to be said! And done!”

“Nothing can be done!” Dandelion’s voice had a sharp edge, one that Geralt wasn’t used to hearing. 

“Does someone want to fill me in?” he snarled.

The three conspirators looked at one another. “I’ve got to look at the ledger,” Zoltan growled suddenly, jumping up from his chair and hurrying outside.

“I’ll help him,” Triss said, hurrying after him.

Geralt watched them go, then raised an eyebrow to Dandelion. “Why’s the ledger outside?”

“It’s not,” the poet moaned, giving a shake of his head. “They’re just abandoning me.”

Geralt folded his arms over his chest. “They want us to talk about something,” he said.

“Yes,” agreed the poet. He fiddled with his lace cuffs, then looked up at Geralt with sad eyes. “Geralt- oh I don’t know how to say it-” he shook his head. “Geralt, I’m dying.”

“You’re human,” Geralt said softly. It was something he’d been painfully aware of for years, ever since he’d first met the troubadour. Dandelion would die one day, and Geralt would be left alone.

“Well, yes,” Dandelion fretted, chewing at his lip. “But it’s not- Geralt, there’s something on my leg.”

“I’d guess pants, but you can’t seem to keep those on.”

“A growth! A- a-” he sighed, looking away, then whispered, “A tumor.”

Geralt tensed. “Tumors can be removed,” he said curtly.

“Triss has,” Dandelion replied. “Twice.”

The Witcher said nothing, his blood running cold.

“It’s come back. I told her just to take the entire limb, but- it- it’s too late for that.”

“Why?” he growled through gritted teeth.

“It’s spread into my hip and - most likely - my abdomen as well.”

Geralt was silent.

“Geralt? Talk to me Geralt.” Dandelion placed his hand on his arm, squeezing it gently.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I- I thought we could fix it without having to tell you,” Dandelion confessed. “Oh Geralt, are you terribly cross? I was only trying-”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m not upset, Dandelion,” he said softly. “Is there nothing else that can be done?”

“Well, Triss is looking into it, asking around, but-” he sighed. “We’ve tried everything, Geralt.”

His throat felt dry. “How long?”

“It’s spreading quickly,” the bard whispered. “A few months. Maybe a year.”

Geralt dropped his head to the table, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Dandelion leaned against him, letting out a soft sigh. “Geralt?” he whispered after a moment, his voice hesitant. “I- I- oh never mind.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t ask-”

“Dandelion.” Geralt pushed himself up, taking his friend’s hand in his own. “You can’t ask too much of me, you should know that.”

The bard swallowed. “I’ve seen people die of this before,” he said quietly. “Or- or similar things. If I’m gone- if I’m suffering or not _me_ anymore-” blue eyes met yellow “I just want a quick death.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched and his stomach dropped. “Of course, Dandelion,” he said softly, reaching out to brush the troubadour’s hair out of his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Dandelion walked with a limp, but he did his best to keep up appearances. Of the group, he seemed the most at peace with what was happening.

They would all agree Geralt took it the worst. He’d always known he would outlive Dandelion - ignoring the possibility of being killed - but he’d thought he still had years left, decades even. To realize he had only a few months was almost beyond comprehension.

They happily gave him a room on the top floor of the cabaret, where Dandelion and Zoltan had their rooms. Triss, although she often hung around the Chameleon, wasn’t living there.

But for the time, Dandelion didn’t seem to be getting worse.

Of course, Geralt should have known better than to jinx himself.

* * *

A scream split the night.

Geralt sat up and threw himself out of bed, swearing as he grabbed a knife and bolted. He bowled over Zoltan in the hall, throwing open the door to Dandelion’s room. Seeing that the poet was alone, he dropped the knife, hurrying forward to grab him.

Dandelion was sitting up, tangled in his sheets, his face pale and eyes wide. Geralt placed one hand on his back, clasping the poet’s fingers in the other. “Geralt! Oh Geralt!” he choked. “I- I can’t feel my leg! Geralt, help me.”

There was nothing he could do.

“I’ll get Triss,” said Zoltan from the doorway. Before Geralt could stop him, he was hurrying off.

“Geralt,” the poet sobbed, clinging to the Witcher as though his life depended on it. “Help me.”

Geralt wrapped an arm around him pulling him to his side. “It’s all right, Dandelion” he murmured. “I’m here.”

“Oh- oh Geralt,” he whimpered, hiding his face in his friend’s shoulder. “I- I tried to get up, for a glass of water- and I- I can’t move my leg.”

“I’ll get you water.” He slipped away, poured a glass from the pitched on the nightstand, and brought it back to his friend. Dandelion was pressing his hand into his hip, whimpering softly. Geralt pulled his hand away, pressing the glass into his hand instead. “Drink.”

Dandelion gulped the water, closing his eyes and whimpering slightly. His shoulders shook. “I can’t move my leg, Geralt,” he said again, struggling to meet the Witcher’s eyes.

“Let me see.” Geralt helped him to lay on his side, fumbling with Dandelion's loose-fitting trousers, pushing them down so he could rub his hand over the poet’s skin. He could feel the scars from where Triss had tried to remove the tumor and the slight lump where it had grown back a third time. But he couldn’t find anything - a bone out of place, a gaping wound - that he could easily fix.

“Ah- ah, you what Geralt? That doesn’t feel so horrid. Press there-” he pushed his fingers into Dandelion’s leg and the poet yelped. “Yes! Right there! That helped a bit, actually.”

The door opened again and Triss hurried in, sitting on the bed across from Geralt. “What happened?”

“He can’t move his leg.”

She studied his leg, running her hand over the same muscles that Geralt had just checked. Triss shook her head. “The tumor must have grown into a muscle or a nerve,” she said.

“What can you do for it?” Geralt asked.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I could try to cut it out-”

“Oh, to hell with that!” said Dandelion, shaking his head. “I’ll manage, after all, if I can’t feel it, it can’t hurt.” He offered a smile that only seemed slightly forced. “Sound logic, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” Geralt growled.

Triss and Dandelion exchanged a look. Geralt pretended not to see.

The sorceress stood slowly, sighing and rubbing her hands together. “Well,” she said softly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He almost wanted to call her back, but he didn’t know what he would ask of her if he did. So Geralt remained, sitting beside Dandelion on the bed as the poet messed with his covers, then struggled to pull his pants back up. “Geralt,” Dandelion said softly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said, glancing up at his friend. “You’re the one that’s… ill.”

“ _Dying_ , Geralt, I’m dying. Not saying it won’t change anything.”

“Hmm.” 

Dandelion sighed. Outside, the sun was beginning to peek over the rooftops of the city. “Help me to the veranda?”

Geralt wrapped an arm around him, helping him off the bed, half carrying him through the door to the narrow veranda off his room. Dandelion winced, settling down on the chair.

“You know,” Dandelion said, clearly wanting to break the silence. “The view here wouldn’t be awful if it weren’t for all the people watching.”

“And I thought you loved an audience.”

“Not all the time,” the poet whispered, running a hand through his hair. He looked more unkempt than Geralt had seen him in a long time, his hair sticking up, his shirt and pants rumbled. If anyone were to pass on the street below, he doubted they would recognize the famous poet.

Geralt ran his hand along the railing. “We could put up lattice,” he said after a moment. “It would make it harder to see in, but you could see out.”

“Seems like a waste, doesn’t it?” Dandelion glanced at the railing, as though envisioning the lattice. “It’s not as though I’d be here long to enjoy it.”

“I’ll send Zoltan to find a craftsman,” Geralt said tersely.

“I- alright, Geralt.” Dandelion gave him a soft smile. “Thank you.” 

Geralt only nodded.

“You must be bored, here,” Dandelion said, looking up at Geralt with concern. “You ought to find a contract-”

“None nearby.”

“Oh.” Dandelion frowned, then looked up at him. “Are you lying?”

“Perhaps.”

The poet chuckled and shook his head. “Geralt you fiend! You don’t have to stay here and mope about my sickbed, you know.”

“I don’t mind,” Geralt promised, leaning against the wall, enjoying the slight breeze that blew by (even if it did reek of human waste). “It’s nice to take a break once in a while.” 

Dandelion chuckled, a sound Geralt had long since learned meant that he was up to something. “You know,” he said, “if it’s a break you want, the Passiflora isn’t far.”

Geralt chuckled.

“Come now! I’ll get a cane!” Dandelion swept his arms dramatically. “I’ll be _dashing_ with a cane!”

Geralt chuckled. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll eat first, then find you a cane and a whore.”

“ _Damsel_ , Geralt, a _damsel_!” he laughed. “Whore is far less…. Poetic.”

Geralt carefully helped Dandelion to his feet, then sighed and pulled the poet onto his back. “Don’t tell anyone,” he threatened. “I’ll deny it.”

“Oh I won’t,” said Dandelion with the tone of someone who was already planning who to tell.


	3. Chapter 3

Dandelion smelled.

Geralt wasn’t going to tell him, because he was likely the only one that noticed, but the scent of death hung around him. It grew more evident the sicker Dandelion became, and eventually Geralt had to admit it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.

Eskel stopped by to visit on his way north for the winter. “I heard you’d been here for a while,” he said, stomping into the cabaret and looking around with an amused expression. “The tales couldn’t decide if you were living in a brothel or a tavern though.”

“It’s a cabaret!” cried Dandelion, looking distressed. It was one of his better days, so he was seated on a chair in the lobby, chattering happily with visitors.

Judging by the strange expression that flicked across Eskel’s face, he smelled what Geralt had smelled. Something sticky and foul, like rot.

But he didn’t mention it. “Are you coming north?” he asked Geralt after they’d stepped back outside where Dandelion couldn’t hear them.

“No.”

“The bard,” Eskel said softly. “He’s dying.”

“A tumor,” Geralt replied. “Its spread beyond what we can do for it.”

“Why are you staying?”

“He’s my friend,” Geralt replied. “And- Eskel I made him a promise, and I have to be here in order to keep it.”

“What kind of promise?”

Geralt wouldn’t meet his eye. “It doesn’t-”

“Geralt.”

“He doesn’t want to suffer,” Geralt said quietly. “I promised him-” he sighed “-I promised that I’d kill him, if I had to.”

Eskel looked horrified and a bit angry. “He shouldn’t have asked that of you.”

“I told him he could,” Geralt snapped, and stomped back inside.

Triss arrived sometime after Eskel left, pulling Geralt aside she said, “Your friend visited me.”

“Eskel?”

She nodded. “He demanded I write up a list of his ailments. Said he’s taking it back to Vesemir.”

Geralt frowned. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But- the Witchers have knowledge, they-”

“We’re not healers.”

“No,” Triss agreed. “But you have ancient tomes, Geralt- Geralt I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“Neither do I.”

* * *

Geralt took to carrying Dandelion around. The poet seemed to enjoy the attention, wrapping his arms around the Witcher’s neck if he was on his back, or resting his head on his shoulder if he was in his arms.

But there wasn’t much for him to do, so most days Geralt simply carried him onto his veranda, letting him enjoy the sun through the lattice slats that shielded him from too many prying eyes.

The poet chattered happily basking in the attention of everyone who’d come to see him. They were allowed up to his veranda to talk, but only after they’d gotten by Zoltan who stood in the lobby with his warhammer and a long list of everything that wasn’t allowed to be mentioned.

If the conversations seemed strange, seemed forced or awkward as everyone danced around mentioning that they were visiting for what might be the last time, no one pointed it out.

“Geralt,” Dandelion said one afternoon, once Priscilla had come and gone. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” asked the Witcher.

“I don’t care,” replied the poet, “we can go to a pigsty so long as I don’t have to sit here and pretend people are just coming by to visit me, not weeping over the grave I’ve not even been put in yet.”

Geralt considered, then nodded slowly. “Alright,” he said.

“A ride?” Dandelion asked hopefully. “I’ve not been on a ride in- well, a long time. That would be nice, I should think.”

Geralt picked him up and put him on his shoulders, taking him out through the back entrance so no one would gape. Roach was waiting out back, grazing on the small plot of grass behind the cabaret, and he sat Dandelion on the ground before fetching Roach’s tack.

The poet could sit in the saddle just fine, but as soon as Roach began to walk, he would cry out and grab fist fulls of her mane, nearly tumbling off the side. With only one working leg, he didn’t seem to be able to balance himself at all.

Geralt had planned on leading Roach, or merely walking behind her, but instead, he swung himself onto her back in front of Dandelion, letting the poet cling to his waist.

They rode out of Novigrad and down along the coast, Dandelion chattered animatedly the entire way, talking about this and that and giving Geralt the complete history of the ships in the harbor. Although, the Witcher suspected he was making a fair amount of it up.

They stopped and ate lunch on an outcropping of rock, and Dandelion threw bits of bread and watched with childish glee as the sea gulls fought over the crumbs.

“Geralt,” he said softly, as the Witcher was packing up the remains of their lunch. “Bury me by the sea.”

His jaw tightened. Geralt had almost managed to forget what was happening, that Dandelion was dying, that he only had a few months left (at best) until they would be burying the poet. “Of course,” he said tersely.

“I didn’t mean to upset-”

“You didn’t upset me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m not upset with you.”

“No, Geralt,” Dandelion said sternly, fixing the Witcher with a look that he wouldn’t have allowed on anyone else. “I have upset you. And- you should go. Go to Kaer Morhen, Geralt, now before-”

“No!” Suddenly he understood how Dandelion felt all those years ago when he was traipsing after Ciri. He’d tried time and time again to send the bard away where it would be safer, but time and time again Dandelion had continued to follow him. It made sense, all of a sudden because Dandelion was the one trying to send Geralt away.

“You don’t have to watch me die, Geralt.”

“I’ve always known I’d have to watch you die, Dandelion.” He sat back down beside the poet, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. “I thought you’d die of old age, though, and - stupidly - thought we had years left.”

Dandelion snorted. “Really, Geralt?” he asked. “Because I was always certain that you would simply vanish. That some monster in some forgotten town in the middle of nowhere would get you, and I would be left wondering if you’d died or simply forgotten about me again.”

“I won’t forget you again, Dandelion.”

“Pretty words,” said the poet. “But I’d like you to.” Geralt looked up, meeting his eyes as Dandelion continued, “Stay until the end, if it pleases you, but - if you’ve ever cared about me - you’ll forget me because I couldn’t live with knowing I’d hurt you.”

“When you’re dead,” Geralt pointed out, “you won’t have to live with anything.”

Dandelion threw his head back and laughed.


End file.
